


Chaos and Control

by greenfairy13



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sex Pollen, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25904503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenfairy13/pseuds/greenfairy13
Summary: Jeremiah has a very special present for Oswald. More specifically, he offers him a drugged Jim.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jeremiah Valeska (one-sided), Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Comments: 18
Kudos: 61





	1. Presents - A Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, this is an idea I've been toying with. Actual smut is planned for chapter 2 if you want me to continue. Comments and kudos are what I live for.

Jeremiah’s breath is hot on Oswald’s nape. The mobster shudders as a hand claps possessively over his shoulder but he does nothing to fight the touch or to bring some distance between himself and the Joker. 

“Pengyyyyy,” he sing-songs, drawing the pet name out abysmally long and Oswald finally flinches. Nothing about this encounter is pleasant. The Clown’s breath is acidic, as if he hadn’t eaten for days, he reeks of hunger, cigarettes, and something decidedly chemical, something repulsive. 

He hauls the Penguin closer, digs his digits into the soft flesh of Oswald’s stomach, wishing him to scream for his guards, for someone, anyone who’d finally take the Clown down for good. 

But it’s Gotham. He needs him. They need each other.

So he stays silent.

“I have a present for you,” he whispers then, eyes wide and unfocused. “Such a beautiful, beautiful present,” he repeats, dropping his voice a few octaves and Oswald snorts, or tries to. The noise he makes is supposed to sound cocky but is probably solely desperate. To be honest, he simply wants this transaction to be done. 

The Clown studies him then with big, translucent eyes. Eyes that have been drained of any color, lost in a sea of battered flesh. The man’s entire visage, his entire being, has been shattered and glued back together by someone not knowing what a human face is supposed to look like. If he could, Oswald would hide under the table and wait for his mother to come and rescue him. 

But being the King of Gotham, he has to suffer through the entire ordeal. 

“I will sweeten our deal,” Jeremiah carries on as his tongue darts out to lick a long, disgusting stripe from the column of his throat up to his cheek. The gangster takes a mental note to burn the cravat he’s currently wearing. 

“That’s not necessary,” he croaks out in response, voice horse and unsteady. God, he just wishes Jeremiah would finally leave. 

The Clown positively beams at him, takes a step back, and shakes his head. “No, no, no,” he crows. “That’s so _impolite_ ,” he preens, “to look a gift-horse in the mouth.” 

He cackles then, unfettered and unhinged, and Oswald starts wondering why he agreed to this in the first place, why he couldn’t simply strike a deal with the GCPD, Jim’s righteousness and sanctimony aside. 

At least the Captain never makes his skin crawl or gives him the feeling of death still being his most favorable option. 

But then it’s not that, isn’t it? It never is, in fact. He’d gladly deal with Jim and his high morals every day if they wouldn’t make his skin crawl in an entirely different way. If he wouldn’t still admire the Captain, Gotham’s imperturbable Knight, who would occasionally strike a deal with the devil solely to save his beloved city just to bounce back into the light the second his blood had dried on the contract. And then he’d burn the paper and turn his back on all the demons and carry on with being who he always was, always will be. 

“What if I gave you,” Jeremiah whispers huskily, effectively cutting through the Penguin’s musings, “everything you ever wanted?” “If I made your greatest desire come true, hm?” he asks, eyes flashing red as he smiles benevolently down at the mobster. 

This time, Oswald snorts for real. 

The Clown’s smile merely widens in response. “What if I brought you our dear, old Jim?” he presses. “Debased,” he adds. “Brought down to our level, begging and sobbing for your touch?” 

Jeremiah’s grin is something else as he speaks, unsettling, and unreal.

Oswald sucks in a breath through his teeth, struggles for breath as he gapes at the other, unsure how to respond. 

The Clown cackles again. It’s a metallic sound, callous and cruel. He raises a finger into the air, halting any protests the Penguin might have. 

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he tells him with mock sympathy. “I got eyes, too,” he adds, pointing at those two balls of flesh that allow him to see. “He’s sooooo pretty,” he croons. “All that blonde hair, those fine abs, those perfectly defined cheekbones.” 

His already abysmal face contorts into a demonic grimace as he grins again. “I’d be dead myself not to notice,” he cackles. “And those cheekbones,” he adds. “I think I’d cut myself slapping them, don’t you?” he asks nonchalantly. 

Oswald gulps, rolls his shoulders, and finally settles on glaring at the Clown. 

“I have seen the way you’re looking at him,” he continues, almost suffocating from laughter. “We all have. I have to say, I quite like it,” he tells Oswald, slowly regaining control over his voice again. 

Pulling a purple glove from his hand, the Clown reveals more marred skin. “This repressed lust. This unprecedented hate. For you must hate him, don’t you?” Jeremiah urges, pressing all the Penguin’s buttons. “After all his betrayals,” he concludes once more pressing his body up against Oswald’s, “you must hate him as much as you love him.” 

The Clown tilts his head curiously, wets his lips, and stares intently at his counterpart. “Don’t we all?” 

Oswald struggles in his grasp, he tries to yank his arm free, but Jeremiah’s hold on him is too strong. “It’s endearing really,” he laughs. “How you’re not even trying to deny it. How you’re always standing too close to him, practically sharing his breath. How you’re always a tad bit too lenient with him. If any of us dared to do the things Jim does to you, they’d be drifting in Gotham river,” he finishes, staring expectantly at the Penguin, and finally loosening his grip. 

If Oswald could, he would fight Jeremiah. Would deny everything he just said. Instead, the words _I have a present for you_ are ringing in his ears. He shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t push

Instead, he finds himself intrigued. Wanting. Finds himself asking and Jeremiah pushing him up against the wall. 

Oswald’s head hit the bricks with a muffled thud. “I have never raped anyone,” he breathes out, hands clawing at the other’s shirt and his breath must be ragged for the Clown shows yellow, rotten teeth again. 

“You’ve done far worse,” he replies easily as he starts toying with the tie around Oswald’s neck. And he did, he has to admit that if nothing else. Had tortured and maimed and gladly so. 

“What would you say?” he asks the Penguin, clicking his tongue against his teeth, “if I gave you Gordon? Writhing and whining, bent over the closest surface, needy like a bitch in heat and ripe for you for the taking?” He arches an expectant eyebrow at Oswald and the Clown’s breath seems that much hotter all of a sudden. 

The gangster’s throat runs dry. He can picture it with crystal clarity, this image Jeremiah is painting. Jim bent over his desk, pants tangled around his ankles, restraining his movements. A fat cock leaking against a pristine surface, already making a mess of things. His ass up in the air, waiting for him to ruin it, to take what had ever been his. 

He swallows heavily, hardly dares to look up. 

Jeremiah places a digit against his lip. “Don’t you wanna do bad things to him?” he asks and Oswald can only nod. Because yes, there is lust. But there is also something more, something darker. 

His fingers clench around his cane as he tries keeping his expression blank, unfathomable, even though he knows he’s failing. 

“If I told you,” Jeremiah tilts his chin up once he knows he’s won, “Ivy gave me a little _something_ and I made a little _something_ , would you be interested?” 

And Oswald simply stares, lost in thought and want. “But why would you do that?” he finally breathes out, brain almost clouded with possibilities. 

Jeremiah simply smiles. “Because,” he drawls, stepping closer to the Penguin, engulfing him in heat and scent, “I love myself a little chaos and you love yourself a little control.” 


	2. Love To Hate You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the moment he realizes why he hates him as much as he loves him. At his core, Jim never truly changed, continued fighting even if it was futile. He would never be his, would never team up with the Penguin for good. Would only ever form an alliance with him if the situation was dire enough, but bounce back from the evil in his wake the second their mission was fulfilled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed. I love me my comments and kudos :)))

There are presents and then there are _presents_. Oswald doesn’t believe for a single second what Jeremiah is offering him is a gift born from generosity or selflessness. He knows there is an ulterior motive to what he’s giving him, even more than one. But that all fades to insignificance once he lays his eyes on James Gordon. 

True to his words, Jeremiah has bound the Captain for the Penguin’s pleasure, has practically wrapped him up like an offering - or a sacrifice. 

He finds Jim bent over the table in his study, hands cuffed securely to the radiator behind it, stark-naked. A fine sheen of sweat covers his entire body as he’s panting heavily, head angled away from him. 

Even from afar, he looks delectable, mouth-watering, truly. His chest heaves and falls while he struggles against his bindings, a high-pitched, desperate noise escapes his mouth, and for a second, the spell is broken. Oswald hesitates, clutches the cane in his hand tightly, and wonders if maybe that was a ruse if James is in pain. 

But then he all but howls, turns his head, and the look he’s giving the Penguin is enough to knock the air out of his lungs. Jim’s eyes are almost black, huge in the dim light, and then he whines. 

_Oswald._

His name sounds different like this. In fact, he has never heard his name spoken like that, with such need and desire. 

James says his name as if it was the only word in the world he knows, the only word he ever wants to say again. He says his name as if he mattered. 

Oswald simply stands there and listens. Committing the sound to memory, he replays it in his head, over and over again. Hearing his name spoken in such a manner is worth whatever the price he’s going to pay for this night might be. And he’ll pay it gladly. 

_“Oswald”_ , Jim breathes again and it’s a call the Penguin couldn’t resist if he tried. He doesn’t, though. 

The Penguin breathes in those ragged, desperate sounds as he slowly makes his way over to the bound blonde, lets them wash over his body, soaks them up, and still craves more. 

He’s a greedy, insatiable man, has never claimed otherwise, and this is just too tempting. It would take a better man, a different man to back away from this now. 

Oswald reaches out, hesitantly at first, but his shyness will soon fade to insignificance. He never hesitated to sell his life to dreams, to sacrifice whatever needed to be sacrificed to achieve what he truly wants. 

Tonight isn’t different. 

“My security-system needs some improvement,” Oswald mumbles when finally touching bare, sweat-slick skin. 

Ever so slowly, he caresses Jim’s lower arm. Touches only where it’s considered socially acceptable. Even if he wants to have all of this new toy in his possession, this plaything he’s been given. 

Jim pulls at his restraints, fights against the metal’s unyielding grasp. Somehow, he manages to angle his head just right, to surge forward, and capture the Penguin’s lips. 

Oswald’s brain short-circuits. Jim is hot against him, too hot for it to be considered normal. The cop has trouble breathing, must be on the verge of unconsciousness, is clearly not in his right mind, and yet. 

This kiss is everything Oswald ever yearned for. A declaration of lust and greed. Jim’s tongue slides into his mouth, tastes him with vigor, and practically licks his doubts away. Oswald moans, mirroring Jim’s own sounds almost perfectly, as he surrenders to this kiss, tasting the other man in turn. 

Jim had been the star of Oswald’s dirty fantasies so often, had been rough and gentle in them, demanding and pliant but those dreams are nothing compared to the real thing. 

Oswald is distantly aware that this is nothing but another fantasy, a drug-induced spell Jim has fallen under but if this is what reality is willing to give him, he won’t refuse it. 

Closing his own eyes, Oswald places one slender digit against Jim’s lips. 

“Suck,” he orders hoarsely, watching enraptured how he follows his command, how his finger disappears, feels how his tongue wraps itself around him. He can’t help but imagine those same lips wrapped firmly around his cock, and the thought sends a jolt a pleasure directly to his groin. 

He groans as Jim keeps giving him an idea of what he’s going to do with his clever tongue if only given half the chance, twirling it as if his life depended on it. His hair clings to his face, those bright eyes are burning brightly, feverishly, and this beautiful, beautiful body is stretched out for Oswald and Oswald alone. 

Hesitantly pulling back, he takes a moment to admire the sight before him. Jim is something from another world, imperfectly perfect with those well-defined muscles, those broad shoulders, all those scars marring his skin. 

Oswald gulps. When it comes to injuries, bruises, and scars, Jim almost rivals Victor Zsasz, the man known for carving marks into his own flesh. Jim should have died a long time ago but somehow, he’s still here, breathing, pleading for Oswald to touch him. 

Sucking in a breath, Oswald thinks how this night will leave another scar if only an invisible one. But he deserves leaving his marks on Jim, doesn’t he? How often did the cop betray him? How often did he turn his back on him? And didn’t Oswald save his life more times than he can count? Reestablished his reputation without ever receiving proper reimbursement? 

It’s his right to leave a scar that is invisible to the world, will never fade, no matter which doctor Jim will ask for assistance.

Closing his eyes, Oswald claims Jim’s lips again. The blonde did hurt him, and therefore, he wants to hurt him in return. He sacrificed so much for Jim in the past, used to love him so passionately, even if it only ever caused him pain. Oswald might be crying, he isn’t certain, as he pulls this solid body against him, touching every inch his greedy fingers can reach. 

The heart beneath his hands is beating rapidly, unsteadily. 

_“Oswald,”_ he begs again, and those blue eyes have never been bigger. Jim looks incredibly young like that, mouth slightly parted, hands still firmly bound, and still trying to reach out for him. 

He looks like the boy who came to Gotham all those years ago. The naive blonde who tried to change this city’s rotten core with all his good intentions, and his pure heart. 

Oswald wants to claim him, and destroy him. Wants to carve his name into his chest, lock him away, and keep him like that forever: needy and wanting, finally willing to bend over for him. 

It’s the moment he realizes why he hates him as much as he loves him. At his core, Jim never truly changed, continued fighting even if it was futile. He would never be his, would never team up with the Penguin for good. Would only ever form an alliance with him if the situation was dire enough, but bounce back from the evil in his wake the second their mission was fulfilled. 

Angrily, Oswald pushes Jim down. His chest is flush against his shiny desk as he kicks his legs apart, positions himself between those legs. 

And that’s when Jim finally seems to come back to his senses - at least somewhat. He cries, pulls at his bindings once more, and stiffens. The gangster’s name is still the only word he seems to know, but now, he speaks it with more apprehension, as if he was begging him to wait. 

Oswald indulges him, hesitates, as his hand slowly caresses the space between Jim’s shoulder-blades. The bulge in his pants is almost painful by this time, but he has waited so long, he can give Jim this moment if he insists. 

His fingers follow all those sharp angles and curves across Jim’s body, settle on the firm flesh of his ass, and he can’t help but squeeze. Jim yelps, helpless in his position. His fingers reach out, trying to hold on to anything. Whatever Jeremiah has given him has successfully sent him into a complete haze. Oswald isn’t even sure he has any idea what exactly is happening. 

Jim wiggles his fingers again and finally, Oswald catches on. He takes his hand in return, and squeezes, oh so gently. Jim reciprocates immediately, holds on to him as if he was a life-line, and finally, he snaps out of it. 

When angling his head to look Oswald in the eye, his gaze is not full of lust, but of fear. He smacks his tongue against his teeth, tries to form words, but everything that escapes him is a gurgling sound. He squeezes Oswald’s fingers again when the tears start streaming down his face. 

It’s the pure surrender that forces Oswald forward, too. That makes him want to kiss away the pain from his features. 

The gangster waits until Jim stops trembling in his arms, until he’s limp and pliant again. His head rests against Oswald’s chest as he listens to Jim’s unsteady breathing. Oswald’s presence alone seems to calm him and belatedly, he realizes how much Jim trusts him. 

His fingers reach beneath Jim’s body where his cock is pressed against the table’s solid surface. He finds him rock-hard, the tip already leaking. 

“It must hurt,” Oswald murmurs and the muffled groan Jim gives him in turn is enough affirmation. 

This is probably the only way he will ever gain Jim’s full trust, love, and devotion. And isn’t it pathetic? This love, he can only have it by inciting a crisis or by drugs. What kind of man is he even that he would take advantage of such a thing? The answer is simple: the man who had always taken what he wanted. 

Jim whimpers again when he ruts into the palm of his hand, desperate to get off. Like this, he’s nothing but a needy whore, a plaything for all of Oswald’s fantasies. Closing his eyes, he places his hand back on those rounded cheeks, parts them, and finally starts rubbing small circles against his tight, inviting hole. He’s all his for the taking. 

His sweat- and spit-slick finger pushes into the heat and he swallows Jim’s pained cry immediately with another kiss. 

“Shhh,” he soothes him as he starts moving in and out, hardly awaiting the moment he’ll be buried inside him properly. He forces a second finger inside, ever so slowly breaking the tight ring of muscle. Oswald wonders if Jim had been touched in this manner before. Has he ever been with a man or would he be his first? 

Oswald feels drunk on his power over his stubborn, tenacious nemesis. They had teamed up so often in the past. Jim had betrayed his morals so often, together with him, only to toss him aside the minute they had had no more common interests. Jim won’t be able to jump back from this, won’t recover, probably. It’s Oswald’s time now to use and abuse Jim, and then treat him as the trash he always though the mobster to be. 

He’s not ready, nowhere near stretched enough, and Oswald should probably use some lube, but the Penguin’s patience is running thin. In his defense, he never used to be patient anyway so why should he be now?

He pushes inside in one, swift movement, and the cry of shock and pleasure beneath him only heightens his pleasure. The Penguin always gets off on the agony he causes, but this is different, more exquisite than any pain he’ll ever cause. 

Steadying himself by grabbing Jim’s hip hard enough to bruise, he starts trusting, forgetting about the stress this position is putting on his shattered knee. 

It’s painful, for both of them, but it’s much more painful for Jim, and that’s what counts. The blonde is so hot and tight around his cock, like an innocent little virgin. His inner walls clench desperately around Oswald, holding him in a vice-like grip. It’s good, perfect. 

He pushes inside again, harder and deeper, eliciting another low moan from the man beneath him. Jim starts drooling over the surface, and Oswald trusts again, tries hitting the same spot anew, and preens when he succeeds. 

“You’re gonna come on my cock, you little whore,” he mutters as he speeds up, driving his dick ruthlessly in the body spread out for him. Oswald’s nails dig into Jim’s flesh, leaving angry red marks. 

He _wants_ _to_ leave signs of this encounter, wounds Jim will not ever forget. 

He probably will, though. The man is so far gone he might as well be unconscious. 

Jim spreads his legs wider, allows for him to slip deeper, and that’s exactly what they both need. He ruts against the table in his wanton state, soils the entire thing as he spurts hot, sticky come all over Oswald’s insignia of power. He sobs, exhausted from the force of his orgasm, and when he clenches down, he forces the gangster over the edge, too. 

Oswald simply lies there, draped over Jim’s shoulders, once he’s done emptying his load. The room is silent except for their harsh breathing and the beating of their hearts. They had never been more in sync. 

Wistfully, Oswald notes they’ll never be further apart from each other than in a couple of minutes. 

And finally, Jim comes back to his senses. Oswald notes it immediately, sees it from the way he blinks, how the haze clears from his eyes. 

He swallows, hard, and stills again. He seems to stare into the vastness of space as he lies there, spent, sated, humiliated. 

“What happened?” he asks. Oswald would have expected his voice to be low, intimidating. Instead, his voice is small, uncertain. He sounds like a scared child, lost and desperate. 

Oswald wraps his arms around his shoulders. The reality of the situation comes crashing down, like a bucket of ice thrown into his face. 

He just _raped_ the man he loved for years. And now whatever bond they might have ever shared is irrevocably torn. There’s no going back from this. 

Jim pulls at his bindings. “Oswald?” he whispers. “Can you untie me?” 

Oswald can hear the tears in his voice. He smells them, even, like the musk from their coupling. 

“Please,” Jim adds, and if Oswald wasn’t certain there’s something broken before, he is now. Jim never begs. 

With trembling hands, he sets to work, opens the cuffs holding Jim in place. 

“It was...I was…” he stutters, unsure what to say, how to apologize for this despicable crime. 

“It was Jeremiah,” Jim finishes for him once he’s free, conviction seeping back into his tone. 

Oswald gulps, the truth already on the tip of his tongue. His heart is racing inside his chest so fast he thinks it wants to escape the confinement of his body. His hand darts out, gently touching the blonde’s face. How will he ever recover from this? Now that he had him, he wants to keep him. 

What would hold him back from tying Jim up again? He’s still so weak, so docile. He could keep him forever, drugged and bound.

Or….

Oswald swallows thickly. “It was Jeremiah,” he agrees hoarsely and Jim breaks down. The room is filled with the sound of him sobbing brokenly, a noise so unlike any other Oswald ever heard from Jim. 

And between those hiccups, he repeats one sentence over and over again: _I’m sorry_. 


	3. Joke's On Me - Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald reflects on his actions.

They simply stand there, tied together in shame, and Oswald feels for a moment as if he had forgotten how to breathe. Time slows down while his stomach seems to get filled with sharp rocks of ice. Ice that will freeze him from the inside and grind his inner organs.

The mobster committed every crime possible. He murdered, tortured, gleefully so, maimed, and broke minds. He never shied back from anything. Not from brainwashing, not from giving his blessings to horrifying experiments. He sold drugs, and weapons, shipped faceless people over the oceans, uninterested in their fate. 

It never affected him much, his life of crime. He shrugged it off and moved on. When he was a child, weak and poor, when they humiliated him, punched him in the face for daring to be different, he swore to rise above them all. To become somebody. Somebody they’d fear and respect. Someone with influence. Someone who could drop his coat carelessly to the ground and countless people would rush to pick it up. 

And when he made his promises come true, Jim Gordon would still not be willing to bend his knee. He respected that, this strength, that rivaled his own, loved it, even.  _ Loves  _ it. He had always been the one who refused to succumb to his will. His only equal. 

He wanted Jim to respect him, to love him - but he wouldn’t, and now he’s paying the price - but the joke’s on Oswald. 

The Penguin would laugh if he wouldn’t be feeling this nauseous. His stomach roils and he barely has the time to reach for his wastebasket before emptying the remnants of his half-digested meal into it. 

Oswald stares at the man he loves for over a decade now, and everything he feels is remorse. This wasn’t love, what he did to him. It was an abomination of it, a terrible travesty, his biggest crime, and the only he truly wishes to be undone. 

Oswald always knew everything is free for the taking, everything he wants he can make his own,  _ but this _ . This was something he should have never taken by force. Love should be innocent, gentle, even for a monster like him. 

He’ll have to live with this, with this shame. Forever. 

Whenever he took a life, he could ignore the guilt. He’d bury the bodies, and he’d forget the faces of the dead. He’d carry on, suppress all the memories, and think about what he achieved in turn. 

Being powerful, being wealthy means  _ everything _ . It is worth everything. No friendship is even remotely as precious. 

But this love? This is his downfall. And now, he’ll have to live with it. 

Oswald retches again until his eyes are blurry from all the tears swimming in his eyes. 

He looks up, stares at his nemesis, and buries his face once more in the basket. 

Jim is still standing where he left him, leaning against the desk, insecurely trying to cover himself with his hands. He’s hugging himself with one arm, covering his private parts with his other hand. His eyes are downcast while he’s worrying his lower lip with his teeth. 

Against the light, his hair seems to be unusually bright, like a halo, as he’s nervously rocking back and forth on his heels. It strikes Oswald again how innocent he looks with his boyish features and the fear etched into them. 

“Do you know where my clothes are?” he asks, gaze flickering from the ground to Oswald’s face. 

The gangster doesn’t. Jim had been brought here naked already but he hasn’t the heart to tell him. 

He wishes he could wrap him up, take him into his arms and hold him close until he stops trembling. 

If Oswald could, he’d kill him. At least he wouldn’t have to live with this, whatever this is. 

But as it is, he can’t. 

He can barely look at Jim as walks over to his sofa to collect the throw decorating it. Mutely, he hands it over so Jim can cover himself, regain at least a tidbit of dignity. 

He’s still the only thing he can’t have, the one he wants, and now that he got a taste of what the man feels like in his arms, what he tastes like, he’s doomed. He’ll replay the events of this night over and over again in his head, will protect Jim with everything he has, just to keep the fleeting chance of having him close again, even if for a second, alive. 

Oswald shakes his head solemnly as he tries regaining his composure. Jim’s better at this task, it seems. But then Jim always was the better man. 

“I could have stopped this,” he murmurs, at last, and Oswald’s head snaps up. He gapes at the other, unable to process the statement. 

“You were cuffed,” he says then, too briskly, too harshly. 

Jim worries his lower lip again. “I could have stopped it,” he repeats firmly, and when Oswald starts to protest, he stops him. “You didn’t want this,” he states. “You were hesitating,” he adds. “If I had only...If I had said something…” He shrugs, helpless, defeated. “You would have never done this if…”

The blonde is shaking again and suddenly Oswald remembers what Barbara once told him. How, despite his good looks, his confidence, he’s ultimately a good boy. A loyal man, one who is utterly devoted to his partner. Someone who still believes making love is exactly that. Making love. He used to make Barbara feel as if she was the center of the Earth. Maybe that’s the reason she went crazy over losing him. 

And now Oswald has a fleeting impression of what it means to be loved by Jim. Even if it’s so tainted and tarnished it makes him want to vomit. 

It forces him to admit at least that: “If anyone could have stopped this it should have been me. I wasn’t the one who was bound.” 

But Jim, always the hero, denies that truth. It sparks something in Oswald, his old spite, or maybe just his stubbornness. “Because you’re what?” he spats. “Jim Gordon, Commissioner of Gotham, the White Knight, our holier-than-thou savior?!” It’s anything but fair and Oswald knows but he can’t stop himself. Not when he’s like that, running on adrenaline and rage. 

The cop can barely look at him now and the mobster can only fathom how he feels. He looks as if he wants to bolt, run as far away as possible. 

“Because I wanted this,” Jim confesses then, voice so gentle Oswald isn’t sure he heard him correctly. “Because deep down I wanted you to touch me.” He holds up the hand not desperately clutching the blanket. “Not like this. But still.” 

The confession knocks the air from Oswald’s lungs, leaves him shaken and full of fear. He understands now. Grasps exactly what Jeremiah had in mind when taking Jim to him. 

It’s ingenious. 

Jim sucks in some air. “I know you didn’t. You vomited the second this was over but I….” his voice breaks off. 

Oswald wants to protest, tell him how that is so far from the truth like nothing before but he can’t. 

He is the most powerful man in Gotham, the second-wealthiest man in this city’s existence, and now the one he used to love hopelessly confesses to him his hopes aren’t delusional?

It’s true what they say: getting everything you ever wanted truly is the most horrible thing. Now that he knows, he’ll protect Jim at all costs. The slightest threat against his cop and he’ll jump into action. And should he ever know...He must never know. 

Jeremiah has him in the palm of his hands now. This one bad decision made him the Clown’s slave. 

“Can I use your bathroom?” Jim aks then and Oswald wants to laugh. 

_ You can have everything you want and even more _ , he wants to reply. Instead, he gestures at a door and says, “I’ll get you some clothes.”

Jim flashes him the hint of a smile. 


	4. Shiny Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald decides to keep Jim.

They say if you love someone, you should let them go. 

It’s not like Oswald completely disagrees. He does acknowledge the truth in that statement - somewhat. Everything considered, Jim always had a habit of coming back to him. 

But truth to be told, Oswald is much better at breaking things. 

When he was a child, one growing up in poverty, he learned how to fly under the radar. How even if they’d beat him up over his pale skin and his raggedy clothes, they’d never take the broken, the damaged things from him. 

Of course, he always wanted to own shiny things. New things. Expensive things. But even now he has a habit of losing them, of having to fight for them. Be it either to keep them or regain them. 

Yet, if he truly wants to own something, it better be broken. 

As Jim is currently occupying his bathroom, for sure trying to wash off the memory of this night, Oswald makes a decision. 

And now that he had Jim in his arms, he decides to keep him. It’s as simple as that. It was Jim’s little smile after everything was said and done. His little gesture so full of warmth and genuine affection. Oswald wants to see it again, that lopsided grin, a grin only for him. 

After loving the other man from afar for so many years, years in which he unsuccessfully tried to strip him from his morals, to bring him down to his level, to force him to see the world through his eyes, to corrupt and manipulate him, he finally sees a true chance to own the good Captain. He wants to be Jim’s misstep, his exception to the rule, and now that he feels how that could be, he can’t let go. Not ever. 

Pensively, he takes a sip from his whiskey while he waits for Jim to return. He has organized some clothes for him, cheap stuff from the next Walmart, the only store open at this time of the day. It’s not courtesy, not entirely. He simply figured Jim wouldn’t react favorably to his men wading through his personal belongings, and he’d definitely not approve of having something stolen for him. So a simple white shirt and a pair of sweatpants it is. 

To be honest, Oswald is excited to see Jim in clothes he picked for him. Even those tacky ones. Besides, this is only the start. Soon he’ll have tailored suits made for him, and ties picked matching the blue of his eyes. He’ll look absolutely delectable, and it will be all Oswald’s doing. 

But for now, it’s time to play coy. To look crestfallen and anxious, harmless. 

Oswald furrows his brows. Jim is taking awfully long in the bathroom. It’s not like he’s worried about his water-bill but surely you don’t need more than an hour to shower, right? 

Cautiously, he knocks at the door and listens. He can hear the water running, but else, it’s quiet. So he tries again, more forcefully this time. Jim doesn’t answer him, and for a second Oswald thinks he might have escaped. He rattles at the doorknob, slightly panicking now, until he remembers that they are on the first floor and the bathroom has no windows. 

“Jim?” he calls, not even trying to hide the anxious edge to his voice. 

When not getting an answer for the third time, he opens the door. To his utter surprise, it’s not locked. And for a moment, he just stands there, right in the doorframe, engulfed in steam and the scent of soap. There’s so much steam he can hardly see, and if he’d be wearing glasses he’d for sure be blinded, but like this, the world simply becomes a tad bit more grey.

Jim is still there, sitting on the floor of his massive, open-spaced rainforest-shower with his back leaning against the tiles. 

“Jim?” he tries again, and finally, he gets a reaction. 

The blonde’s head snaps up and he flinches. It’s something Oswald never witnessed before in the other man, and it’s gorgeous.

For once, big, headstrong James Gordon is beaten down. Completely. There’s no fight left in his body, all his strength has drained and what is left is remorse. Oswald never thought he’d live to see such a day but now it has arrived. 

Hell, the man had been defeated time and time again. He had been buried alive, infected with a virus manufactured to break one’s mind, incarcerated innocently in Blackgate, had watched his friends and colleagues die by the hands of the woman, Sofia Falcone, he trusted enough to love her, and still, he bounced back. 

But now he seems to be at wit’s end. 

And he’s still desirable.  _ Shiny. _

Oswald’s lips curl into an uncertain smile as he observes him sitting down there, struggling to get up, to cover himself. He’s all but trying to camouflage himself against those tiles and Oswald takes pity, hands him a towel, and even allows for his fine suit to get drenched when turning off the water. 

“I brought you clothes,” he announces quietly as he forces his bad knee to bend so he can get down to Jim. He gestures at the basin where he placed a neat pile of cheap cotton. 

Jim doesn’t look him in the eye when mumbling a half-hearted ‘thanks’ but Oswald lets that small impoliteness slide. Soon, he thinks, things will be different.

He wishes he could comfort Jim, smooth his hair down, or put an arm around his waist. He knows touching him right now would be wrong. He crossed enough boundaries for a night, committed a crime horrible enough he doesn’t want to add to it. He’ll give some time now. The man will come around, he always does. But this time, it will be different. Oswald practically feels his guilt buzzing in the air. He’s still convinced what happened was his fault, and his alone. It’s the hero in him, it’s just how Jim Gordon ticks, for better or worse. 

After all, it’s exactly what Oswald loves him for. A long time ago, the Penguin decided to ignore right and wrong and started focusing on beneficial or not, bit Jim? He’s still different, still hurts when terrible things happen. Oswald sees it every time, in his posture, in his expression, in his habit of drinking way too much. Even if he never says a word, Oswald knows. 

“I don’t blame you,” he whispers, giving him the absolution he so clearly craves. He knows full well it does nothing for him, though. Jim will have to forgive himself and he won’t. Not for a long time. 

“I still went along with it,” Jim replies, just as quietly. And isn’t it another sign of how much what happened affects him? The Jim Gordon Oswald knows would keep silent and drink, but this Jim? He craves forgiveness.  _ His _ forgiveness. 

If Jim never learns what happened, he’ll literally be eating from the palm of his hand in no time. 

“Don’t you want to get dressed?” Oswald asks in lieu of an answer. He nods towards the clothes, encouraging Jim to get up and take them. 

Jim freezes, just looks at him with those huge, blue eyes Oswald could merrily drown in. He is such a pretty thing, the mobster thinks. A man filled with devotion and principles. He’s beautiful inside and out. Everything considered, it’s a shame how this life, this city keeps hurting him. When Oswald was little, he learned good people deserve good things and even get them. Whoever said that, clearly never lived in Gotham. This city simply loves kicking nice men. 

With a sigh, Oswald sits down next to Jim. He exhales dramatically and considers his options. 

Jeremiah was right, Jim indeed is a gorgeous present. Even if it only serves to control the mobster later on, now that he has it, he’ll never give it back. 

“Maybe I should let you know I wanted this, too,” Oswald confesses. He’s whispering, just like Jim. Before the other man can answer he continues, “but you knew that already. I wanted you the moment I first saw you.” He leans his head against the wall. “Even if I knew it was impossible.” 

Turning his head, he looks Jim in the eye. “But never in my wildest dreams have I imagined  _ that _ . It’s nothing I never wished for. Not for you. Not for me. I’m a romantic when it comes to love.” Oswald laughs a bit as he says that. It’s not false what he says, there’s some truth in it. But it’s a tainted, twisted truth. 

Jim stays silent beside him, simply absorbs his confession. “I thought about kissing you. Thought about you not being harsh or disappointed in me. Of all the crimes I committed, of everything I have been forced to do...this…” Oswald falls silent, doesn’t finish the sentence deliberately, simply hopes Jim makes the right conclusions. 

“I know you’d never do such a thing willingly,” Jim comforts him, and if he could, Oswald would snort. Self-deprecating, poor Jim. He left him to rot in Arkham when he was the one to pull the trigger on Galavan, but ever since he’s soft on him. Jim is like a barking dog. Looking all tough and strong but he does nothing to stop him except for empty threats. And the one time he did actually arrest him, he had no choice. 

“I’m a criminal, Jim,” Oswald tells him. “We both know that. But I have my standards,” he huffs. “Even I thought there were some things I’d never do.” He lets his shoulders slump, seemingly defeated, and waits for Jim to believe him. This time, he absolutely knows he’ll do.

Jim squeezes his hand in answer. It’s a gentle touch, soothing. Just a shy movement of three delicate digits. 

It feels like a victory. 

Oswald decides to push his luck, to ask for more. All his life he did so, and it always brought him to the top. 

“I wanted you to like me,” he murmurs, letting his head fall back against the wall with a dramatic thud. “I thought about you kissing me.” He squeezes Jim’s hand in turn, waits for him to process the peace-offering he’s granting him. 

“I’m sorry,” Jim repeats in a tiny voice. If Oswald was a better man, the sound would break his heart. Instead, he thinks he’s finally getting everything he ever wanted. 

A thumb slides gently across his wrist. “I could kiss you,” Jim offers. It sounds casual but Oswald can see how every muscle, every fiber in his body is strained. Oswald shifts his body, their knees touch, and they both feel each other’s heat. 

“I guess you could,” he replies, just as casually. “But it would mean nothing to me if you don’t want it. I don’t need pity, Jim,” he tells him coldly, inwardly rejoicing when the other flinches. Oswald decides to twist the knife some more, to spike his bad conscience. “A kiss should always mean something.” 

Jim’s face is open when he looks at him this time. Once more, he’s vulnerable, looking so young and innocent it hurts the mobster. 

And then Jim leans over and their lips meet. It’s a gentle kiss, brief, only a delicate touch of warmth against the corner of his mouth. Oswald yelps but doesn’t pull back.

Encouraged, Jim cradles his head, pulls him closer until he’s almost sitting on his lap. A pair of strong arms embrace him, and Oswald thinks of nothing any longer. This is what safety feels like, what coming home means. 

He embraces Jim in return, clings to him like a fragile mademoiselle, like a virgin in need of saving, and maybe he is. Maybe he needs someone to lay his love on, to spoil rotten, and care for before the remnants of his humanity turn to dust. 

Maybe he just wants to own one more thing. 

Jim kisses him as if the world is about to end. It sounds like the biggest cliche but Oswald knows no other way how to describe it. The cop’s tongue slips into his mouth, hot and wet, and so very needy. Jim makes a small sound at the back of his throat, holds him close, and practically devours him. 

The mobster has never felt more wanted. He kisses him as if he mattered, as if he was the most precious thing in the world. Right now, there’s only him and Jim. There is no cooling water on their skin, no hard tiles, no tomorrow. He is the center of Jim’s universe and Gotham could burn down around them, they wouldn’t notice. 

Oswald always knew Barbara lost her mind when Jim left her but he never understood why she never truly recovered. 

Now he does. 

When Jim kisses him, everything else fades to exist. It’s only him and the cop now, and he’d happily amputate his bad, hurting leg with a rusty spoon if he could make this moment last forever. 

His head lolls against Jim’s chest once they’re both out of breath, panting in sync. Oswald puts his arms around the blonde’s waist, just like he wanted, and closes his eyes. He wants to say ‘I love you,’ feels the words on the tip of his tongue, begging to spill out. It would be a mistake. 

God, he wants to call Jeremiah and get more of that drug. Wants to tie Jim up and never let him go. He’d keep him in his basement, with everything he ever wants, everything he could wish for. He’d burn down the entire world if it made Jim stay. 

“If this was a ruse...” he rasps out, honest for once. He doesn’t finish the sentence. He has no idea what he’d do, anyway. 

“It wasn’t,” Jim reassures and Oswald relaxes in his arms once more. “I don’t joke with such things.”

“You mean with kisses?” Oswald asks back and they both laugh, if only reluctantly. 

“I  _ like _ you,” Jim tells him quietly, and Oswald’s heart swells in his chest. The way he says it, it sounds like so much more. 

Jim strokes his face as they sit there on the floor, and his touch his so  _ measured _ . As if he was afraid to hurt him. Oswald now understands what Barbara meant when calling him Captain Vanilla, too. 

In the little bubble they created, there is no place for violence, no way they’d hurt each other. Every little movement is gentle, full of adoration. Jim will never hold him down, won’t ever hurt him, not in this context. There is just warmth, safety. 

Oswald wonders what it must have felt for him, being tied down while having sex, being entirely helpless. And the pain! It must have gone against everything Jim seeks in love, and once more Oswald feels the guilt clawing at his chest. If he could, he would change what happened. But the past can’t be changed so all he can do now is giving Jim the future he deserves. 

“God, I wish I could keep you, “ he breathes once he’s able to form words again. 


End file.
